Something So Strong
by barefootbean
Summary: If he breathed deeply enough, letting himself sink into the worn down soles of his boots, sometimes he could taste the faint airy aroma of past summer days. Rita/Raven, a little Yuri/Estelle.


**Author Note: You may want to have a kleenex box on hand for the latter part of this. Maybe.**

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><p>Raven didn't mind her eccentricity most days, though occasionally, during the days when she slept in until the late afternoon, snoring lightly upon the floorboards, curled up in a ball as if it were one of the most natural places to be and not one of the strangest things he ever saw, he wondered thoughtfully, pondered curiously, running a hand over the stubble that graced his lower jaw, just <em>what<em> it was he saw in her that made him want to stay forever and a day, and sleep away in the same manner as she.

Looking down from this angle, she looked comfortable, wedged in between a bookcase and the only coffee table in the entire house. With a little imagination, he figured he could probably fit too, but his back was already slightly stiff, and the thought of taking an elbow to the jaw so early in the morning was not quite the way he wanted to start his day.

Stepping lightly, Raven removed himself from the room quietly, bare feet padding softly on the cold wood floor. Arms crossed out of a curbed morning boredom that was frequent in the dawning hours, he waddled down the wide hallway and into the chilliness that was the tiled floors of the kitchen in a stupor, musing softly to himself that if he'd only slept in a little longer, he more than likely would have come across a warm cup of coffee instead of the emptiness that was two polished and pushed in stools surrounding a small square table in the eastern corner of the room.

Only after a few minutes passed did he realize he'd been standing in the same position for a while, observing. Maybe nostalgia _was_ tugging on his heart strings a little more than usual, left alone in a typically occupied space—but whatever the case, Rita would rise soon enough, and he didn't mind making the coffee himself for once.

-o-

She wandered into the kitchen approximately half an hour later, hair scrunched on one side of her head and bangs sticking out at odd angles in the front. She was looking a little worse for wear than usual, though, a little withered, but upon seeing his own reflection in the window above the sink as he filled a small kettle with water (because Rita drank _twice_ as much coffee as he), Raven probably didn't have much right to judge, because stubble stared back, and silver highlights sparkled as the sun warmed his back.

"Morning darlin'," he called over his shoulder in greeting, and the only mildly articulate reply he got in response was a groan and the uneven _clomp clomp clomp_ of her feet as she staggered over to the table like a drunken man. "Coffee's on the counter," he added in passing, but Rita had already slid into her usual seat beside the window, head resting in her arms, and legs stretched out placidly like she didn't know where was appropriate to place them. He watched with a small, forlorn smile, because he was hardly unaware of the feelings of rigidity and tightening of muscles that so frequented him. Age had that affect, it seemed, but until that day came when it became difficult to lean down and kiss her awake in the mornings, surprise her in the afternoons with something nice, or spoil her in the evenings over a nice dinner and a sweet kiss or two more—than he'd be concerned.

"Sore?" he asked, and Rita nodded incoherently in her arms, rubbing at her forehead and mussing her up her hair.

"Yeah. The _Fiertia_'_s_ not going to be too pleasant tonight."

Raven wordlessly added a bit of cream to his coffee, stirring it with a single pinky finger lazily. Little light brown swirls rose to the surface, and he eyed them fondly. Such was the morning routine; coffee to start the day, the company of a loved one, and it would only go on from there. The aches and pains—it was simply easier to linger on the good rather than the ugly, he found—and she was never of the latter.

-o-

If he breathed deeply enough, letting himself sink into the worn down soles of his boots, sometimes he could taste the faint airy aroma of past summer days. It came in the afternoons, when he strolled down the cobbled pavement streets of Capua Torim, the familiarity of the sea and humidity and fresh sea food a friendly reminder of all his days spent roaming the docks and colorful markets. He would recall Rita's pace beside him, her curious glance when he gave her a content grin, and then the deliberate slow, long strides he would take to stay in sync with her quick jarring movements—and the occasional _tap tap squeeze_ he would give her hand when she became flustered or frustrated by his indiscreet glances at various objects of question, or the crowds and chatter of passer-bys when they stepped too close sending her reeling for footing.

"Easy, darlin'. They're only human," he'd murmur, catching her carefully by the waist, and Rita's hand would flick his own right back, but without the menace or usual defiance she would typically display; instead, a quick twining of fingers, something muttered under her breath, and then a sigh as he'd finally risk taking her up on the somewhat humorous hint and begin to lead her through the maze of people skillfully, using his height to an advantage as he peered for escape routes and calmly towed her along behind him; she didn't loosen her a grip for even a fraction of a second.

"The harbor. That's where we're supposed to meet Estelle at," she'd eventually say at his shoulder, when they could hear each other again, and he'd nod, because he already knew, and the _Fiertia's_ worn down elegance (much like himself) was already in sight.

Another soft prompting tug after a moment, and she'd follow—and he'd pull her in closer still, because he wanted to, not because she needed him, but because he needed her. She kept the breezes feeling soft when the sea spray brushed around his neck, and kept his strides strong whenever he began to shiver.

"Thanks, hon," he said, and Rita glanced up at him, heels clacking on the docks.

"For what?" He didn't answer, just smiled like a gentleman, and kissed her because he could.

-o-

If Estelle had been blind, she knew now, watching quietly, hands clenched around the fine leather cover of an older, more comfortable book (much like they, she realized), and counted her blessings like she did whenever she observed the changes around her, every wonderful morning, they _still_ would have shined brightly with warmth in the vast and withered imagery of her then begotten mind.

"Yuri, who are they?" she would've asked, for lack of eyes, lack of depth, and he would have calmly given her a smile, a sly gaze at the couple she couldn't see, and he would've said, whispering softly, _It's just them,_ because _they_ were such a constant, she recalled, and voicing or imagining them as anything less before _she and him_ suddenly became _them_ simply blurred her mind, and his too, it seemed. It didn't make sense, she found, for them to be anything more simplified than that, because there was no definition or word that could justly describe just exactly who _they_ were.

"They're really in love, aren't they?" she'd ask again, for lack of perception and shriveling hands, and Yuri would sigh, glancing over at the couple as they talked quietly in the corner of the room, voices smooth and knees touching under the table-top, like Estelle didn't notice, or _they_ didn't care, or maybe both.

"Yeah... they sure do act like it. It's like there in a bubble," Yuri murmured in a drawl, and then, grinning slightly, he added, "Rita's bubble's big enough to hold them both, I'd bet," and he'd wait for her to laugh.

"Their bubble," she tacked on quietly then, for real, and suddenly, Estelle felt sullen, hearing the words spoken, and seeing them in action. It was like reading a scene from a book, she thought, one of those moments when the author finally indulged you, the reader, and suddenly, everything made sense, why a character acted like they did, why a person's motives were this. What drove them.

"Raven won't live as long as Rita, will he? He's pretending it doesn't matter, but... Rita..."

She wasn't expecting an answer, but Yuri glanced over at them anyway, noticed the pepper-gray streaks starting in Raven's hair, the surprised look on his face as he stared innocently back, _what are ya lookin' at me for, son?_, and suddenly, Yuri's perspective shifted to Rita, and she stared too, taking in her lover's face, and she was smiling, but he wasn't blind to the fact that her expression was strained.

Tongue thick, he murmured too late, "Probably not," but Estelle had stopped listening, because by then, she had managed to catch hold of Rita's slightly tired gaze, followed by the curious raise of the eyebrows, _a darling quirk, it always had been_—and at a loss as to what to do—Estelle simply gave Rita the biggest smile she could possibly muster, so large she threatened her cheeks would tear, and she'd be a grimacing mess herself.

Raven didn't seem aware—and if he was, he didn't comment, because those flecks of gray gave voice to all the words he never said—and Estelle knew better than to pity a man of his reason for happiness—or the woman who acknowledged it herself, and lived with it. Spoke with it. Shared a room and a cot with it.

"You think we'll be like them?" she asked Yuri once again, for nostalgia's sake, because there was never enough to go around.

He shifted his gaze to her, to the small Repede-like puppy situated at his feet, ignorant and innocent to the years passing by around it, and simply gave Estelle a genuine smile, shrugging his shoulders. Estelle read it all in his face, the steady hold of his dark eyes, and the interesting curl of a stray strand that looped around his ear.

Folding her book away for the evening, tucking it under her arm like a child would a blanket, she gave her husband a light kiss before joining the couple whose years were passing far quicker than her own, and cherished the moment when Rita gave her friend's hand a soft squeeze beneath the table—_thanks—_and silently returned her eyes to the interest across from her - the man with silver flecks - whose hand was holding Rita's free one so tightly beneath the table and quivering lightly, as if he was holding on for dear life, as if he'd witnessed a secret he didn't care to share, as if it wasn't obvious he didn't notice these changes in their expressions, too.

As if he really didn't mind the feeling that these people genuinely cared for him.


End file.
